


Fuckboy

by conormonaghan



Series: How Did It Happen? [2]
Category: Jonas Brothers, Justin Bieber (Musician), One Direction, Shawn Mendes (Musician), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bottom Justin Bieber, Chastity Device, Choking, Cock Cages, Cocky Justin Bieber, Dominance, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gay Sex, Group Sex, Hardcore, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Pegging, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Scents & Smells, Seduction, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Spit Kink, Submission, Top Justin Bieber, Underwear Kink, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conormonaghan/pseuds/conormonaghan
Summary: Justin Bieber is a fuckboy.





	Fuckboy

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story is one in a series of stories placed in the same Alternative Universe, which I call How Did It Happen? This story occurs chronologically before the first installment, Booty, but is meant to be read after. There are several more installments planned.
> 
> Please do leave comments - I love to hear from readers!
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future work as they become available at www.conormonaghan.com

  


It all started out with beautiful women.

More precisely, the irrepressible desire to fuck beautiful women. I’m sure you’ve caught wind of the occasional conquest of his, the Selena Gomez or the Kylie Jenner, perhaps even or two of the hookers that he’s banged, but the truth of the matter is that it all started long before then, just a few months after someone named Justin Drew Bieber first posted a few videos to YouTube. It started when that boy realized that there were women out there in the world, hundreds, thousands, even millions of them, who were infatuated with him, thought about him and his body day and night, and dreamt of ending up in bed with him.

He obliged. Way back then, before he even started wearing Calvin Klein, when he still roamed the streets in sagging pants and colorful American Apparel underwear–purple, black, green–take your pick–were the days when he discovered a passion for sex. No, that’s not quite right. It wasn’t a passion. It was an addiction. An addiction to busting a nut. And he quickly discovered that willing women were a step up from his right hand. After that, sex with women quickly became sex with many different women. His early pace was one every other week or so, but by the the end of the year, he was sleeping with as many women as he could manage.

Three different women was a slow day for him.

He always had a type. At first, it was the typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. But his tastes matured over time, vacillating between the African American, the Latina, the Eastern European. Eventually, his tastes moved away from race and superficiality towards the esoteric. The innocent girl who he could tempt into satisfying his darkest, most obscene fantasies. Nipple play. Bondage. Come eating. Anal sex. Ass licking.

The appetite of a teenager.

But eventually there came a time when his tastes identified something entirely new: boy. The straight boy, to be precise. Justin was never interested in the homosexuals, and even his budding interest in boys wasn’t “gay.” But he pursued men. The straight boy, sure. The famous straight boy, even better. The cocky straight boy, the best. The bigger the ego, the more satisfying the game, and for Justin Bieber, that’s what it was all about: the game. Well, and the nut. It was about the power dynamic, the rush of being in control–of the situation and the person, the horny teenage boy he was hunting, full of testosterone, new to fame and sex and ready to fuck just like Justin was a few years before, who maybe even dreams of one day becoming the next Justin Bieber. That boy will never be Justin Bieber, but if he’s lucky, he might just end up giving up his ass to Bieber.

For Justin, it’s always so easy and satisfying–to bend his will and then bend him over.

Maybe that’s why he started fucking boys–maybe.

He started with One Direction.

HARRY STYLES

Harry Styles was the easiest, because he kind of wanted it. Harry is a free spirit, maybe the only modern teen idol that naturally embodies the rock ‘n’ roll soul of yesteryear. A free spirit musically, politically, and most importantly, sexually. He wasn’t opposed to sharing his bed with man, woman, or other, so I guess that’s what made him a natural first catch for Justin. In a way, he is the modern Saint Laurent boy: lanky, Chelsea boots, and black skinny jeans. But Justin stripped that facade, piece by piece, until nothing remained but the English boy, taking dick in the missionary position, drenched in sweat and begging for more.

“Give it to me, mate. I know you can fuck harder. Harder!”

Justin didn’t know what the word power bottom meant, but if he did, he would realize that this was the one and only time in bed where he was on top but not in control. Despite that, their sex was wild and maybe the closest to passionate that Justin ever experienced with a man. Once, he even leaned down to press his lips to Harry’s mouth, to suck face with the boy whose filth he was drenched in, whose ass was connected to his penis, but at the last moment he realized the gravity of what he was about to do, and his lips found Harry’s nipple instead, and bit down, hard, and that was that. He shot his seed in Harry’s ass.

LOUIS TOMLINSON

Louis Tomlinson was a bit tricker, because he was one of those homosexuals who insists against all evidence that he is completely straight. Nevermind that he enjoyed those rare childhood moments when he got to have a wank with his mates. Nevermind the drunken nights when he traded blowjobs with Harry, his first unbridled sexual exploration–thank Harry’s healthy sexual appetite for that. Nevermind all of the nights he risked a casual sexual fantasy about another boy–a bandmate of his, Harry, or Niall, maybe even Justin Bieber–while he was making love to Eleanor. Fucking a woman felt so much more satisfying when he was thinking about men.

As I said, Louis Tomlinson is straight. He repeatedly reminded Justin of this fact–Justin, we need to stop. I’m not gay. I’m really not gay. I promise I’m not gay. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god! Yes!–with sexed out moans as his ass got roasted again and again and again by more than eight inches of raw cock.

At the end of the night, a new urge overcame Justin. Once is an occurrence, but two times is a streak. He snagged the grey Topman underwear on the floor on his way out, leaving their owner spent on the bed.

His first trophy.

LIAM PAYNE

If sexuality is a spectrum, then Liam Payne is the straightest member of One Direction. He may be the most unequivocally heterosexual boy Justin has ever met, but he was also by far the dumbest. He had no interest in gay sex or even butt sex, not even with a female companion, and he had rarely even stolen a quick glance at a mate’s equipment when standing at the urinal, even for comparative purposes. No, he was just a straight guy interested in beer and football and girls. Which is probably why a few drinks, some locker room talk, and some straight porn were enough to slowly coax him out of his clothes, article by article: the brown dusting of hair on his chest was a good tease for the hair that sprinkled the rest of his body, from his navel to his overgrown pubic bush to the hair nestled in the crack of his ass. Justin saw it all that night.

As for Liam, the poor guy just wanted to get off, which he did, eventually. He probably just didn’t imagine that it would happen while he was bent over the edge of the sofa taking it up ass from Justin Bieber himself. 

Justin took the black Calvin Klein boxer briefs with him on the way out.

NIALL HORAN

You know what they say about the quiet ones. It was morally difficult for Justin to justify this one, because Niall was so nice and innocent, and Justin knew he was taking advantage of a recent break-up. He had seen how infatuated Niall was with girlfriend–the paparazzi had managed to snap a few pictures of him walking her to his car while trying to cover the hard-on bulging out of his basketball shorts. If this girl was able to cultivate that kind of behavior in the honorable Niall Horan, then he must be taking the break-up hard.

But Justin needed to nut.

His moral dilemma was unnecessary. The picture of innocence one moment, but sprawled out on his hands and knees the next. Niall was so fucking horny that Justin threw him on the bed and literally ripped the fabric of his underwear right down the crack of his ass and popped his cherry right then and there, waistband of his white CKs still clinging uselessly to his waist. And they kept going. Doggy style, missionary position, every setup you can imagine, but reverse cowboy had to be Justin’s favorite, watching Niall’s firm ass cheeks sliding up and down his massive cock, spreading again and again to french kiss his penis.

He had to settle for an elastic waistband with a few stray scraps of white cotton attached that night.

ZAYN MALIK

Zayn Malik gave Justin trouble. He is a recluse, and an even bigger douche–the boy is flat out fucking cocky in a way that is difficult to even describe. In a way, he has evolved beyond even the arrogance that typifies Justin, but with none of the justification. He may be an inch or two taller than Justin, but he was far less attractive, rich, famous, muscular, and well-endowed. He was miserable in bed, also.

When Justin finally ensnared him and organized a sequence of events that forced Zayn into contact with him, with no way to weasel himself out, when Justin finally got the boy intoxicated and into the bed and out of his clothes, he showed absolutely no mercy. He slid those white Polo briefs down Zayn’s slender waist and stuffed them in his mouth like a ball gag and destroyed his tight little hole, I mean absolutely obliterated it, fucked it so hard that when Zayn Malik woke up the next day every muscle in his body was sore and tender to the touch. It was the roughest, sweatiest, nastiest fuck of Justin Bieber’s life, at least up until that point.

He dropped a load in Zayn’s ass and a wad of spit on his face to match.

But even that wasn’t enough. Afterwards, his appetite grew. He decided to push things a little further than ever before and circled a finger around the loose, gaping, semen-soaked rim of Zayn’s hole and then pushed it in, feeding the semen to the boys parched buttlips. Come proved to be an effective lubrication for the post-coital finger-fuck. So much so, that he eventually worked his entire fist into Zayn’s fucked out ass.

He took special care to not let Zayn come that night. Like every other boy that finds himself on the bottom end of a Justin Bieber encounter, he ended up loving the dick, but Justin was careful to give it in small doses to prevent invoking an orgasm from Zayn Malik. Once, when he accidentally pushed Zayn over the edge with a balls deep thrust, he squeezed the base of Zayn’s penis to suffocate the orgasm, an old trick he learned.

On the way out, he took the white Polo briefs, along with the rest of Zayn’s clothes. He figured it would be a nice surprise: waking up the next morning sober, ass-naked, and with an ass full of semen.

A parting gift, if you will.

ROSS LYNCH

Zayn may have been the first, but he wasn’t the last person to get fist-fucked by Justin Bieber.

There was Ross Lynch, the rock god. Or as Justin Bieber thought of him, the bikini boy. Justin questioned what self-respecting heterosexual dude wears tighty-whities–not just tighty-whities, but Dolce & Gabbana bikini briefs–and for the most part, he was right to question. Straight men don’t wear them. But Ross Lynch does, and if you don’t take Justin’s word for it, check out Ross’ Instagram photographs.

Look, I get it. The underwear complete the rock aesthetic–the charismatic, dominant, I-don’t-give-a-fuck and I’m-in-control-of-my-sexuality persona that drives some girls wild. But it doesn’t quite work for Ross Lynch, and Justin Bieber recognized that. So, he added the briefs to his collection. He added a new sex position to his repertoire that night too: bumper cars. Look it up. Damn if that wasn’t a satisfying way to fuck Ross Lynch. His ass was asphyxiatingly tight at the beginning of the night; not so much at the end.

Fucked and fisted.

CAMERON DALLAS

Cameron fucking Dallas. That dude turned out to be the holy grail of Justin Bieber fucks, the GOAT. His day-to-day act is as purposefully homoerotic as they come, and he didn’t disappoint when Justin finally got him naked in the bedroom. Cameron actually kissed Justin, right away, liquor on his breath, a full-on, tongue-on-tongue sloppy make-out session, and he rode the fuck out of Justin’s cock too, moaning while that sweaty mop of hair of his flew all over the place. Justin devoured his nipples the whole time; Cameron would wake up the next day with red and swollen nubs, not to mention red scratches down his back and on his ass.

Justin discovered that Cameron Dallas was the type of guy who wants to be pushed further and further as the night goes on, with no apparent limit to the depth of his willing depravity. When Justin was fucking Cameron in the missionary position, looking down into his hungry brown eyes, Justin wanted to give him something special, so he gathered the spit in his mouth and let it fall into Cameron’s willing mouth. It was humiliating, but also sensual. Each time Justin fed him a glob of spit, Cameron would close his mouth and lick his lips.

Justin briefly considered grabbing Cameron’s phone from the bedside table and sharing an Instagram story of its owner’s ass getting pummeled and creampied for Cameron’s 21 million Instagram followers to see, but Cameron deserved better. He recorded a POV video for later use instead, capturing the way his hairy pubic area collided with Cameron’s curved ass–Cameron knew how to arch his back–before panning up tattooed torso to capture his own smile, tongue hanging out in that way that screams, “Yeah, I’m a fuckboy.”

There was no end to the filth. Justin spent the first few minutes after he bust feeding his nut to both of Cameron’s holes–ass and mouth. Then, Justin had Cameron lick and suck his ass while he fist-fucked Cameron’s loose, come-filled ass. Cameron didn’t notice–or at least pretended not to–when Justin carefully, purposefully farted in his face while getting his ass eaten, something he had always wanted to try. Sensing no recognition–or at least no objection–Justin did it a second time a few minutes later.

At the end of the night, Justin slide his semi-hard penis back into Cameron’s busted ass and just laid there on top of his warm body. He got the urge to piss, so he just let it loose. At first, he wasn’t sure if he would notice this either, but Cameron Dallas immediately felt the warm piss of Justin Bieber filling his insides and started whining–shit! holy shit man, what the fuck, you’re pissing in me! oh fuck!–but he let Justin do it.

Justin pulled out when he finished emptying his bladder. He wished he had a nice thick buttplug on hand, and after the night he’d just experienced, he briefly mused that Cameron Dallas was probably just the type of bro who kept a buttplug or a nice fat dildo stashed away in his drawer, but Justin made due with what he had on hand, and wadded his own underwear up into a tight mess and pushed them up Cameron’s ass.

They were the only pair of Bieber-soaked Calvin Kleins that ever left his possession. Justin figured Cameron would do with them what bottoms did, sniff them or suck on them or whatever, but the ass was worth it.

He took Cameron’s cute little undies too. A tight pair of black Calvin Klein trunks.

Justin is looking down at them now, stashed in his drawer. The pair is one among many, the drawer a catalog of the sexiest young men in the industry, or at least those of them that Justin felt threatened by. There were dozens of pairs of underwear, and each whispered its own unique story.

Black Polo Ralph Lauren boxer briefs. Austin Mahone. The smallest dick Justin had ever seen and the first boy to come handsfree while he was getting fucked.

Grey Guess boxer briefs. Joe Jonas. Passed out riding cock while Justin choked him.

White Calvin Klein boxer briefs with the black waistband. Nick Jonas. Messiest rimjob Justin ever received. A huge dump, some soccer, and, as nasty as it sounds, no shower preceded it.

Dark grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Noah Centineo. The ones he wore in his CK photoshoot. Double-fucked by Justin and the lone sex toy he owns–a replica of his own cock. A double serving of Justin Bieber.

Blue Calvin Klein trunks. Tom Holland. So flexible he sucked himself off while Justin jackhammered his ass. Justin gave him bonus points for shooting in his mouth and swallowing his own load.

Black Emporio Armani trunks. Jungkook. Tight. Tight. Tight. Ass.

There are countless others too, each taken from a different encounter, but all amounting to the same thing: Justin Bieber got to bust a nut. That’s what it’s all about. That’s all it’s ever been about for him. Psychologists say they ran an experiment in which they discovered that, given the choice between food and a pleasurable electric shock, rats always choose pleasure, right up until they die of starvation. Justin Bieber is fundamentally the same: he always chooses pleasure. Always chooses to nut. Even his obsession with dominating and humiliating his peers shares the same core motivation: blowing a load. Spilling seed. Busting a nut.

He is ready to bust a nut right now, and he knows where it’s going to go, because all that he can think about right now is the one pair of underwear missing from his collection: those belonging to Shawn Mendes.

The new face of Calvin Klein had avoided his capture for far too long. Shawn was born to be a bottom, and Justin was going to prove it. That 6’3 chiseled body was begging to be fucked and destroyed.

Maybe he would try something entirely new. He had always wanted to double fist somebody.

Tonight.

He had it all planned out, and it started with a game of hockey. A few drinks and before you know it–

Wait, none of that is quite right.

Justin Bieber isn’t fucking Shawn Mendes tonight. Justin Bieber hasn’t fucked any of those boys. It was all a dream, a dream that he’s slowly waking from now, humping the sheets, alone in his bed. I’m sworn to secrecy, so I can’t tell you why a straight boy who loves pussy is fantasizing in his sleep about fucking other boys in the butt–and to be honest, he won’t remember any of those dreams a few short moments–but if you pay close attention to what I say next, you might be able to formulate an educated guess.

Justin Bieber hasn’t fucked anything in quite awhile.

He’s desperately horny right now, naked except for his white Calvin Klein boxer briefs, still humping the bed, looking for some release. He always preferred to sleep naked, both because it felt more freeing and because it was a surefire way to keep whichever girl was in bed with him perpetually horny and ready to go whenever he felt like getting another nut off, but Hailey convinced him to start wearing his underwear to bed so that he wouldn’t be tempted to touch himself, one of his favorite pastimes. That was a long time ago.

He doesn’t touch himself much anymore, and he won’t be getting any release this morning.

He realizes it too and stops his gyrations. Inside his underwear is a smooth, freshly waxed pubic area and a cock that won’t even get to experience the only second-rate pussy–his right hand–available, because it’s locked in a steel cage. It has been locked in a cage for awhile now. Three months to the day today.

Three months since he last fucked his wife.

Three months since he last jerked off.

Three months since he last bust a nut.

It seems like an eternity to him right now, a boy who spent most of his teenage years fucking all day, having filthy group sex with girls who were begging to worship his cock and lick his ass. But it’s just a temporary sacrifice, he tells himself, because Hailey promised him that she would let him out soon.

He believed her.

Hailey was never going to let Justin Bieber come again. Justin didn’t know it yet, but his hung cock would continue to wither away in shrinking chastity devices for the rest of his life. It all started with beautiful women, a massive cock, and the need to bust, and it all ended with Hailey. Justin Bieber is chaste. Forever.

A vision from the dreams he had last night briefly resurfaces inside his head, but quickly fades away. They were a premonition of sorts. Justin Bieber’s days of fucking are over, so he will never fuck any of those guys, but each and every one of those boys will fuck him in due time. The filthy stories will play out just as they did in his head, but with Justin Bieber on the receiving end. He’ll learn to enjoy it over time.

But for now, he goes about his day. He gets up out of bed and drops his undies to the ground so he can extract the four inch thick buttplug from his ass. He walks to the bathroom, caged cock jiggling with each step, and sits down to pee–you have to sit down to pee when you’re wearing a chastity device. He’s gotten used to it, peeing like a girl, and right now he needs to take a dump anyway–that’s why he removed the plug.

Afterwards, he takes a shower and makes his way back to bed. He eases the plug back into his ass, pulls his underwear back up and falls back into the sheets. He checks his phone. No messages from Hailey Bieber.

A few feet away, in the chest next to their bed, is a box with an enormous dildo. It’s a perfect clone of Justin Bieber’s 8.5 inch cock. Hailey convinced Justin to have it made: she told him she wanted to use it when they were apart. She never did.

Nowadays, that monster is more than 4x larger than the caged meat hanging limp in the Biebs’ undies.

Later tonight, he’ll get fucked doggy style by his own cock. 

Hailey might even turn on some gay porn for him to watch while she’s pegging him.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future work as they become available at www.conormonaghan.com


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